The Coathangers recently became the first band in some 35 years to make a record at Valentine Recording Studios, a North Hollywood landmark that once played host to luminaries ranging from Bing Crosby to The Beach Boys. So how did these Atlanta punks re-christen the studio’s vintage microphones? By squeezing squeaky toys into them. The chorus of “Squeeki Tiki” exemplifies what The Coathangers have been doing better than pretty much everyone for the past decade: blowing off the rules in the name of fun, and making damn catchy records almost as an afterthought. Their musical tool shed may be more richly populated now, but it’s still overflowing with the usual suspects: choppy power chords, single-note surf riffs, and some of the best soft-loud dynamics this side of the ‘90s.

What’s changed most obviously is their ability to use those tools. The Coathangers of yesteryear played so loosely — and so aggressively — that they nearly resembled an art punk band at moments on their 2007 self-titled debut. The aggressiveness never wavered on 2011’s Larceny & Old Lace and 2013’s Suck My Shirt, but the band’s sound tightened up like a pair of jeans tumbling around the dryer.

On their fifth and latest album, Nosebleed Weekend, it has finally popped out ready to wear. Credit the change of scenery (this is the first full-length made outside of the band’s Atlanta hometown) or the fancy-ass studio toys (rubber ducks notwithstanding), but really, this is a story of three bandmates sticking it out and gradually becoming more comfortable with one another. The 13 songs on Nosebleed Weekend communicate angst, anger, and regret by turns, but that feeling of comfort rests like a soft pillow at the very bottom of the mix, giving the trio enough confidence to explore corners of their sound they had never thought to unearth before.

Opening track “Perfume”, for example, exchanges their typical ferocity for something that burns slower and leaves a deeper impression. As she did on Suck My Shirt standout “Zombie”, guitarist and part-time vocalist Julia Kugel adopts a smoky croon that sounds like something you’d hear in a Nuggets-era pop song. It’s the closest a driving, mid-tempo rock song can come to a lullaby, reintroducing The Coathangers to the world not with a bang, but with a muted expression of how elevated their songcraft has become.

The song is probably too long by half, but it sets up a more serious tone that the rest of the album seems to push against or fall into line with. This time around, these women aren’t fucking around, even on overtly fun, playful tracks like “Hiya” and the aforementioned “Squeeki Tiki”. Nosebleed Weekend may not reach the manic highs of early Coathangers bangers like “Shut the Fuck Up” or “Nestle in My Boobies”, but it also makes it glaringly apparent that those songs were written by far less experienced musicians who still had a lot of room to grow. Here, they sound like they’ve finally arrived.

It takes seeing The Coathangers live to really understand how fluid the band’s dynamic has become. Kugel, drummer Stephanie Luke, and bassist Meredith Franco switch roles with the gleeful abandon of kids playing musical chairs, hopping onto each others’ instruments and trading turns at the mic. This camaraderie pays off in subtler ways on record; regardless of whether it’s Kugel or Luke taking lead vocals, each song sounds like it belongs to the entire band — and has the entire band’s force behind it. Luke’s throaty rasp (her nickname is Rusty Coathanger for a reason) is so commanding that she hardly needs help, but the overlapping vocals and three-part harmonies transform songs like “Watch Your Back” and fuzzy lead single “Make It Right” from mere storms into straight-up hurricanes.

It’s strange that, a full decade into their career, The Coathangers only now seem poised to break out. Then again, maybe it’s not so strange, given where they were when they started and how much they’ve been learning on the fly all these years. Even now, they’ve managed to retain a degree of volatility that most seasoned punk bands tend to lose after their fourth or fifth record. So what do we call them: rookies, veterans, wiseacres, professionals? By this point, it’s nearly irrelevant. The Coathangers contain multitudes, and with every album, they’re getting harder to contain.

What I remember most in Pity Sex songs are the moments. For most other music, there’s a riff, or a lyric, or some sort of hook that lingers. On White Hot Moon, it’s all moments: the kick-in after the intro on “Bonhomie”. when the guitars on “What Might Soothe You” drop out for a verse, or reaching fuzz critical mass on “Wappen Beggars”. Those little sequences and climaxes sometimes leave you stunned, just for a second, and reliving them is what keeps me coming back even if the sound itself is narrow and limited.

White Hot Moon uses the same tool set from Pity Sex’s last album, Feast of Love. It’s essentially a re-up. They take a handful of contrasting elements, play them off one another and explore the melodic and emotional effects of their chemistry. There’s distorted, rumbling guitar, as if someone dragged their pickups through gravel, giving way to loosely strummed acoustic guitar. Brennan Greaves’ nearly-monotone, low register singing trades lines with Britty Drake’s breezy, incorporeal vocals. Mix and match these into various combinations and it turns out you can make some magic.

“Pin A Star” is the song that pushes these to the middle of the table, all in. Melodic licks and spry rhythms culminate in cascading vocals underlined by their almost note-less rumbling guitar. It’s the song that feels the best, on an album that bets entirely on the feeling of noise.

Pity Sex has always been good at making deceptively fast-sounding songs, but on White Hot Moon they seem completely dedicated to the trick. Even when they sing about the tangles of love, how a particular crisis in time can hold you in an anxious moment, it has the momentum of a rapid. “Burden You” is overflowing with paralyzing yearning, but it’s a rush in spite of it.

Words are just ornaments to hang on these pretty soundscapes, and so it’s no surprise that some elements pop up over and over: the seasons, the sky, a lover’s lips. They’re classic go-to romantic images. It lacks unique detail, but they come pre-packaged with all the right stirring emotions. The only real deviations from the formula come from the quiet, Drake-fronted songs “Dandelion” and “Plum”. The latter especially works as a piece of flash fiction, which stands in stark contrast to the simplistic, bite-sized stanzas that make up the lyrics sheet everywhere else. “Plum” tells a bonafide story about what it’s like to lose a parent in heartbreaking detail in few words, as good poetry is supposed to do.

It’s a better seasoned Feast of Love, yes. But when the wagon still has wheels, it’s hard to knock them for continuing to ride it. It’s still as smooth as it’s always been. B MINUS

As soon as I heard SULK for the first time, I knew I was going to like them. SULK is a shoegaze/British rock band from London and No Illusions is the band’s second release. If you’re a fan of shoegaze, 90’s British alternative and loved SULK’s debut album, you’re going to love this one!

The shoegaze resurgence is in full effect it seems; more and more bands are playing that sound again and I don’t mind at all. I never really got into those type of bands when I was growing up in the 80s and 90s. My musical tastes have expanded a lot since then so now I can appreciate other types of alternative rock bands. Even though SULK might be classified as shoegaze, I think they are more than just distorted guitars and vocals with reverb. Their sound also mixes British indie rock, psychedelic rock and new wave as well.

The opening track “Black Infinity (Upside Down)” hooks you in immediately with an awesome guitar riff and echoey vocals. “After The Only Faith Is Love” sounds like there is a sitar playing in it. Or a guitar technique that replicates the sound of one. I kind of wish they used it in more songs. Title track “No Illusions” is another guitar heavy track and one of the catchiest songs on the album. It sounds like it’s right out of the early 90s. I guess you can say that about majority of the album. “One Day” stands out to me because the guitar playing on it reminds me of Johnny Marr’s style. “The Tape of You” is one of their singles and for good reason. The vocals are hazy, and the beat is infectious. Besides the title track, “the Tape Of You” is my favorite song on this album.

I think the reason why I like this album and this sound now because it has that nostalgic feel to it. It’s nostalgic but not in a gimmicky way. I’ve never been one to like a current music style and usually won’t like it until it’s been seasoned a bit. It’s one thing to play mopey Brit rock where it sounds like to are playing in a tunnel, but it’s another thing to play that style with catchy beats and lyrics. SULK definitely stand out from a lot of British alternative or revivalist bands trying to go for this sound nowadays.

Just everything about this album is practically perfect for me. The incredible guitar riffs, the vocals, the lyrics and choruses, and even the length of the songs. The songs on this album aren’t bogged down by useless solos that go on for too long. That’s important for my music AD.D. and it doesn’t make me want to skip any tracks. Hopefully SULK comes over to NYC one day because I’m curious to see how they perform live. I highly recommend giving this band and album a shot. (readjunk.com)

Nowadays, it often feels like bands and artists have to constantly surprise. New fans, old fans, everyone across the board everyone needs to see, hear, and discover something never before experienced. Falling short of this bar can be sometimes be seen as not pushing hard enough. If a band is just getting music out on the public radar, that expectation of reinvention or unexpected skill is practically doubled. Sounds like quite the rigged game, doesn't it? That might be the case but DC indie folk band, Wylder, have no fear of this ingrained value and they show such confidence with the release their debut full length, Rain and Laura (out today, April 8, independently).

First making a splash on the web last July with a seasonally appropriate single titled, “Sunstroke,” Wylder have been keeping a profile that is simultaneously well plugged-in and quietly low, as the band prepared for this first major milestone. Each of the two singles released ahead of Rain and Laura – “Sunstroke” last summer and then “Swells” this past March – became subject an avalanche of streams, an ongoing flow of online buzz and a steady influx of press so it's not as though absolutely no one knows who Wylder is. However, where the band pushes against the walls of current musical trends, is in the way Rain and Laura delivers much of what listeners have already had impressed upon them with this pair of introductory songs: upbeat, light, string-stained sounds with a touch of pop polish sprinkled on the productionThat said, the album isn't a one trick pony re-packaged 10 times over. However, Wylder also aren't afraid to keep close to the instruments that initially brought listeners in (guitar, mandolin, fiddle, cello, piano, bass, and percussion) and stay pretty much on course throughout the entire work.

Some aspects of Rain and Laura are straightforward, while others prompt a sense of deeper concentration. Like the title suggests, the album does reference rain but, additional, recurring metaphors cover a variety of analogous subjects (rain, floods, the sea, storms, sun, light, and darkness). This set of imagery and metaphor use is so frequent that Rain and Laura can, at times, come across downright spiritual or even Biblical in tone (When you walk / across the sea). What's amusing about this is the fact that there are aspects to Wylder's songwriting and production choices, alongside lead vocalist Will McCarry's timbre of voice, which harkens back to earlier work from Christian rock group, Jars of Clay (Much Afraid, Who We Are Instead). Socio-cultural undertones aside though, Rain and Laura is a poetically thematic concept album and musical narrative.

A folk tone is set in place from the very first uptempo mandolin hook in “Living Room” and this carefree swing floats through several more tracks before things quiet down with “Snake in the Grass”, even if this song isn't the first point of personal difficulty explored by the narrator (The waves are crashing down on me and I need you.). When counted out, the mood of Rain and Laura is about split down the middle between somber and happier sounding musical fare. However, things aren't always what they seem, as “Bitter” is really the only track with a combination of lighthearted melody and truly tongue-in-cheek lyrics (I drew it out / but you did one better / You got him now / and he's got my sweater), even when considering the tomfoolery of the music video for "Swells". Written neatly within the rest of Rain and Laura is a vivid recounting that lets listeners into both the everyday, livable experiences between the narrator and Laura through songs like “Strange Weather” (You and my friends / a glass of wine / spilling your heart / like I don't mind / I'm holding my breath to hear you now), and the less replicable, individual descriptions of the narrator during tracks like “Lantern” (My back's to the wind and my eyes cast down in the storm).The majority of the record is a display of emotionally deep disclosure, detailing a loss and reflecting on the feelings remaining in the after effect of that departure – all of it carefully layered between playful syncopation dressed with charming glockenspiel tones and hand shakers – whisking by at an energetic 16th note pace. Generally speaking, Wylder know how to work the ebb, flow, and blend of dynamics with emotions in their songs (“At the End Pt. 1”, “At the End Pt. 2”). The group's adeptness with this attractive songwriting gives their less-than-mainstream band arrangement a much more mainstream style frame – to the point where 40 or so minutes loaded with prominently mixed string lines; crisp finger picking; and unison, chorus-style backing vocals should be right at home in the music libraries of roots folks and indie folks alike.

College and young adulthood are all about trying on as many different personas and attitudes as possible until you find one that suits you. It’s a terrifying, often emotionally devestating game! Madison Klarer understands this well — the song’s on ROMP’s excellent debut Departure From Venus range from overwhelmingly posi (“I don’t care what you might say/ This is gonna be a great fucking day” on the world-conquering “Avoiding Boys“) to pissed-off and seething (“Get Off The Scale”). These wild mood swings are part of growing up and blindly feeling your way around in life, and ROMP does so with a lively spirit and propulsive energy that’s difficult for a lot of bands to capture once, much less to keep pounding away at for an entire record. But there’s no dead space on Departure From Venus — it’s hard hit after hard hit, and the New Brunswick four-piece harness straitlaced power-pop to dramatic effect, stumbling around at an assured but breakneck speed.

The crux of the record rests on “Come Undone,” a self-destructive and desperate plea. “Sometimes I like laying on the floor to see things in a new perspective,” Klarer deadpans on the bridge, the irony being that her character is most likely in fetal position on the floor in front of the toilet trying not to get vomit in her hair. The narrative of the song is sadly familiar to most: getting so fucked up around someone you like because you’re nervous and then hoping, even after making a fool of yourself, that they’ll want to get dark in the same way you like to get dark. Compatible faults. The invitation on the song goes as such: “I punished myself hoping you’d notice me/ On the bathroom floor of the first floor, I felt undone/ Hoping you’d come undone with me/ Please notice me.“

That acute sense of self-awareness plays out time and again on ROMP’s debut: Klarer writes in missed connections and miscommunications, repeating patterns and bad behaviors. “Thanks for saying hi that night/ Thanks for making me feel like, for a while, things might be alright,” she opens on “Naner Manor” (named after a New Brunswick underground venue), but that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling quickly gives way to a soaring, “Hey, hey, I don’t know what you’re trying to say.” Closing track “Yapshutter” ruminates on where a relationship went wrong, when both parties were at fault for not saying how they felt: “If you knew what I was, if you knew how I felt, we could have glued it all back together again. If you only had some guts, if you somehow stood up, we could have had our own happy end.”

Happy endings don’t come often on Departure From Venus, though, and it’s that dissatisfaction that fuels many of these songs. On the title track, the deterioration of a relationship is framed in two separate verses. The first rushes with the excitement and anticipation of wanting to spend as much time as possible with someone you just met (“Running up the stairs of your apartment/ Collapsed onto your frameless bed”), while the next jumps with a similar nervousness, but this time because everything has become too settled and staid and the end is in sight: “As months pass, you’re not the same/ Now your bed has a frame/ My painting is probably somewhere underneath your bed…” That feeling of being destined to be and then eventually discarded is bookended by a frustrated cry: “Everyone says it’ll get better, but I don’t feel any better. Liars!”

Klarer’s wordy and incisive meditations are met with sprightly and aggressive pop-punk riffs. These songs rock out and aren’t afraid to show it — everything is urgent and thrashing, they build towards off-kilter and crashing climaxes. Take the frustrated screams at the end of “Get Off The Scale” (“What a fucking shame,” she snots off at the end of that one) or the heavy pounding of “Go Back To Bed”‘s wanting refrain of “I miss you.” Departure From Venus sounds like the band would’ve combusted if they weren’t able to play together. On On “Last Year,” Klarer states as much: “There’s something in my head telling me to sing these songs for fun/ Until a knife reaches the back of my throat/ And If I do say so myself, I better find somebody else to help me out.” ROMP is that somebody, and the band is obviously frustrated with life, but also have enough energy to make it seem like everything will probably be OK in the end if we keep pushing forward. Listen below. (Stereogum)